


Pitter Patter

by tinsnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cozy, Kidfic, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia, Warm, hygge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first day of school is rainy. Julian copes poorly.</p><p>Post-canon Cardassia kidfic. Warm and cozy! (Eventually!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitter Patter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/gifts).



> For [bmouse](http://bmouse.tumblr.com/), because she deserves it.
> 
> Cardassian toe-claws, all four per foot, are her invention.

It's rained all day. Grey and dripping from the trees, pouring down in straight lines… drenching and dull and really not worth his interest.

He's watched the rain from his office window. He's frowned at it for a good portion of the afternoon, between patients and paperwork. When things have died down a bit, he's planted himself in front of a window and solicited people's opinions on it. How wet is it, really? Too wet? Too wet to walk? The transit won't stop, will it? No, no, it won't stop, relax, and yet still he's been biting the end of his stylus and poking through files and generally making a nuisance of himself to the point that finallyAmrillefrowns at him—not unkindly—and tells him in no uncertain terms togo home, it's clearly where he needs to be.

He dashes between raindrops.

When he gets back to the house, shaking himself off under the lintel and stepping inside,Garakis there too, well before time.

Of course he is. Where else could either of them be today?

Still, it's a vulnerability, especially considering howGarakis very intently reading a book directly in front of the large window that happens to have the best vantage point over the street. He smiles at it. Vulnerabilities are harder to come by than they used to be.

"Rainy out there."

"Yes, it is," saysGarak, looking up at him as if he's just realized Julian has arrived. "How was your day?"

"Dull. Endless. Yours?"

"Much the same. Join me."Garakpats the seat beside him.

Julian does, and whileGarakfrowns at his book, Julian stares out at the weather. The rain has gone from drizzle to drip, and it's threatening to downpour. Each time the wind picks up, he sucks the inside of his lip, worrying it gently between his teeth.

"Look at the trees."

Garakspares a glance for the wind-whipped little trees on both sides of the sidewalk, bending, leaves churning.

"I'm more concerned about the mud."

That's true too: there's red mud creeping up over the sidewalk, splattering the road. Puddles undulate in the dirt.

"Do you think he'll—"

"He'll be fine," saysGarak, and he should know, and so Julian sits there patiently and waits. No sense in him running out into the rain again, after all. No sense everyone getting wet. Weather's just weather, and nobody else seems worried, so there's no sense in Julian worrying, no sense in picking at a fingernail or in Garak fiddling with a loosened scale or for either of them to drum their fingers on the sofa. Better to sit here calmly and wait, to watch the rain and enjoy the feeling of being warm and dry.

It's hard to enjoy being warm and dry when he knows that someone else might be very wet indeed…

"Are you sure we shouldn't—"

"Why don't you make tea?" saysGarak, turning a page.

It's a good idea. It's something to do. It'll warm him, it'll warmGaraktoo. And it might be nice to come home to hot tea, offered in a special mug. He busies himself in the kitchen. Leaves, water, strainer, heat, steam… the ritual is calming, shifts his focus just a bit, and so he misses the moment when Garak drops hispaddand rises. He turns at the sound, tea in hand, and Garak is already halfway to the door.

He still somehow manages to beat him there.

Coming up the path towards them through the rain-beaten garden is a small, sodden boy. His hair is soaked—what Julian can see of it, anyway; most of it is tucked neatly under the blue hood. His book bag slaps against his leg. His walk is a trudge.

The swell of pride inJulian'schest feels like being lifted on a wave, lifted high and silhouetted against the sky.

"Hey," he shouts, waving, "hey, you," and he sees the small dark eyes lift, sees the little smile.

"Salmakt,faThur."

The tea ends up set on the entryway stone. He's barefoot in the rain, in the grass. It rasps his feet as he runs, as he sweeps his son into a hug, feeling rain soak into his shirt, wet hair against his cheek, his son's giggle against his neck.

"Don't get all wet, faThur—you'll get sick."

"You sound like youryadik." Speaking of which—

Garakis up on the stoop. He hasn't left the shelter of the overhang.

Julian smiles up at him. He's ignored.Garak'seyes are onEssim, and Essim looks back at him. Julian feels the sudden tension, the squaring of his shoulders.

Garak'svoice is quiet, blending with the rain.

"What have you brought this house?"

Essim'ssmile fades. Julian looks at him, uncertain, then back to Garak, who's watching, completely still and unblinking.

"Garak, are you—"

"Knowledge,yadik," saysEssimin the same quiet tone. His voice cuts across Julian's, silencing him.

"Knowledge is valuable. Tell me all that you have learned."

Now? "At least come in out of the—"

"The first thing," saysEssim, eyes fluttering, "the first thing…"

Garakwaits asEssimfalters, closes his eyes, thinks.

"The first thing: I wrote my name."

Garaknods, butEssimdoesn't see him. His eyes are still closed. His body is taut, hands moving, counting nothing.

"I wrote my name three times. The second thing: the letters. I wrote my letters. Nine times each. I was advised to correct the shaping of mykuland myetvik. The third thing: the numbers. I wrote my numbers. Nine times each…"

Essim'svoice is a high drone, a buzz. It weaves through the rain. His recitation is measured, slow; there's no force behind the words, no rush to get them out before he forgets. His eyes open and close. He finds his memories written on the pads of his fingers, on his palms, on the folds of his jacket, on his eyelids, and Julian watches him, trying to remember how to breathe.

His son.Not at all Human. But closer to Julian than most Humans could ever be… and very, veryCardassian, judging by how Garak's smile is hiding in the corners of his mouth, in the wrinkles around his eyes. There's no other sign of it, though. Garak watches Essim implacably, body still, listening. He stands under the sheltered lintel, dry on the porch. Essim stands just outside the porch, at the mercy of the elements. The fact that Garak has left enough room on the stone for a little boy to scoot under shelter is mentioned by no one.

Julian is feeling a bit soggy. He's wet through, clothes dripping, but it doesn't seem right to leaveEssimalone, and so he stands there next to him, carefully offering no shelter, listening as Essim speaks through the rain. His voice drifts softly through the wet air, mixing with the sounds of Kardasi'or: the faint sounds of children in a park, the chant of a marching party passing on daily exercise, the hum of transports, the barely audible sound of the trains. Julian listens, his own breathing shaped by the rhythm of rain.

WhenEssimfinishes, his mouth closes with a small snap. His eyes open suddenly, blinking, as if he's surprised to be where he finds himself. Julian watches him pull himself together, watches him settle back into his body and stand resolute in the rain, boots squelching a bit in the mud as he shifts slightly.

Garak, dry and higher up, deliberates for a moment.

His nod is slow. "This knowledge is valuable. Your gift to our house is worthy."Essim'ssmile is like a sudden sunbeam, and Garak meets it with a tilted smile of his own. "Come and warm yourself by our fire. Drink and eat. You have earned your share."

"I will—I will with thanks," saysEssim, voice shaking with pleasure, and suddenly he's a little boy again, dashing into the house in oh, God, muddy boots—

"Hey! Get back here!"

Later, after the noise and the mopping,Essimsits on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, drinkingchildren'stea. Julian sits next to him, warming his feet in his hands, running his thumbs over small claws.

"You had a good day?"

"Yes," saysEssim, preoccupied with holding his overlarge mug.

"Did you make any friends?"

That gets him a stare. "School isn't for talking,faThur."

"School is for learning," saysGarakquietly to his book, and Julian bites back any kind of response.

Still… he's five, and school isn't for talking.

Sometimes this world seems very cold.

ButEssimdoesn't seem bothered. He wriggles further into the sofa, the blanket falling over his shoulders. Julian reaches out, pats it down, feels beneath it the outline of soft scales, almost ready to shed.

"You learned a lot today."

"I did." That littleEssimsmile says he liked it, too.

"Did you have fun?"

"Oh, yes," saysEssim, smiling wider into his mug, and Julian's worries melt a bit at the sight of that slightly predatory smile. It's a very familiar smile… yes, there it is, worn on another face, an older face with pride in its eyes. Julian raises his brows; Garak blinks slowly at him.

He looks at his husband, frowns. "Was all that… that out there…Is that typical?"

Garak'ssmile is satisfied. "It is perhaps a bit old-fashioned."

"I like old-fashioned," saysEssim, and sips his tea. "Just like inChokri'sadventures."

"You recited very well. Like a true scholar," saysGarak. His voice is a warm purr. Julian lets it tickle his skin as it always has done, feels it raise tiny hairs on his arms. He squeezesEssim'sfeet. Essim's claws poke gently against his palms.

"Can I have more tea?"

"All right," says Julian, dropping a kiss on his son's knee as he rises.

As he's pouring from pot to cup, he hearsEssim'smeditative sigh from the central room.

Garak'ssound of inquiry is quiet.

"Nothing," saysEssim. "It's just good to be warm."

"Mmm," saysGarak.

"Can I learn everything?"

"You can try."

"Does faThur know everything?"

"He wishes he did."

Unseen in the kitchen, Julian makes a face.

"Do you know everything?"

"What do you think?"

Silence for a moment, then: "Not yet."

Julian laughs to himself, listens for the response, but there isn't one; just the sound of rain falling, beating against the windows, drumming on the roof. He smiles down at the tea, feels its steam warm on his face.

 


End file.
